


It’s what my heart just yearns to say

by dragon_rider



Series: Oh, darling, please be mine [1]
Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: M/M, Pining, Post-Episode: S01E06 Rare Species, Requited Love, Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-31
Updated: 2020-07-31
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:42:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25621567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragon_rider/pseuds/dragon_rider
Summary: His specialty had always been killing, after all. He wasn’t surprised he’d managed to destroy their bond in one swift blow.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Oh, darling, please be mine [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1865434
Comments: 15
Kudos: 375





	It’s what my heart just yearns to say

**Author's Note:**

  * For [elder-flower (elder_flower)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elder_flower/gifts).



> Inspired by this stunning, lovely art by [tishawish](https://tishawish.tumblr.com/post/615048674030026752/let-them-be-soft) and Fair by The Amazing Devil.
> 
> For and betaed by the wonderful [elder-flower](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elder_flower/pseuds/elder-flower).

Geralt had always been more bemused than irritated with Jaskier's attentions.

Nothing stopped the bard from showing Geralt just how little credit he gave to the rumors of Witchers not having feelings, being monsters themselves, or even his own particular moniker of The Butcher of Blaviken.

Not even a punch to the gut, delivered with inhuman strength had been enough to scare his travel companion away.

With time, he'd started to enjoy Jaskier's perseverance in caring: the way he would insist on bathing Geralt, paying particular attention to his hair; how he'd take over cleaning the Witcher's armor when its owner was just too exhausted or wounded to do so himself; the way he slowly but surely made a space for himself in Geralt's life just by being who he was and treating the Witcher like he'd hardly ever been treated before.

Like he mattered. Like he was worthy of every little touch, every almost-caress, every smile.

He cursed himself for days after his outburst on the mountain. Eventually he stopped, only by remembering the poet would be far better off without him and his still- crude demeanor, his still- raw emotions even after twenty-two fucking years of experiencing love and care in the form of the most meaningful friendship he'd ever had.

Jaskier had never asked for much and he'd always shared his coin with Geralt, without being prompted. When he'd called in a favor, the Witcher knew he was the bard's only way out.

And yet, he’d repaid all of that—broken all of that—with two well delivered sentences.

His specialty had always been killing, after all. He wasn’t surprised he’d managed to destroy their bond in one swift blow. 

***

For a month, he ached. Yennefer used the time to find and harness the power of another djinn to free herself of him. He found he minded very little.

He was so numb after not being touched by gentle, warm fingers - in greeting, in passing, to comfort him when he was injured, sometimes for no reason at all - that he barely registered anything else.

On the thirty-first day after his mistake, he came across the bard again.

He was walking out of some stables after making sure Roach would be taken care of properly when Jaskier approached him, big smile, and doublet gone, his chemise delicate and light as usual.

“Geralt!” he called out, the same fondness in his eyes and voice as ever.

Surely, Geralt was dreaming?

He only had nightmares, and only when he actually fell asleep, but what other possibility could there be?

“Jaskier,” he rumbled, voice hoarse with regret, throat clogged with longing.

He looked down, at a loss for what to do. His whole body wanted to tremble, wanted to hold onto the bard and never let go, but he controlled every urge and stood still.

He didn’t remember the last time he’d hugged anyone outside of sex and that had always been only with Yennefer.

For all his boldness, the poet had never tried to embrace him, he realized suddenly.

“Oh, darling, it’s okay,” he heard Jaskier whispering. He had approached the Witcher with his characteristic courage and raised a slightly hesitant hand to his right cheek, fingertips carefully tracing his skin, “I’m not mad, and you don’t need to say anything. I am just so very glad I get to see you again, dear heart.”

Something snapped inside the Witcher then. He’d heard that endearment before in the bard’s songs but those songs never made it to any tavern; they seemed to be only for his ears and no one else’s.

_Dear heart, it’s me, it’s me_

_You don’t need to be pretend to be someone you’re not_

He grabbed Jaskier’s hand gingerly, keeping it against his face and pressing his cheek against his palm. His other arm seemed to know what to do and took hold of the bard’s hip as he closed his eyes and focused on feeling again what he thought he’d lost for good.

He tilted his head towards it as Jaskier’s thumb massaged his temple softly.

The need to shake and do something was still there, somewhere deep inside his chest, but it calmed down like a beast being tamed when Jaskier’s hand rested on his left forearm.

“Those songs,” he rasped, daring to look at the bard’s face, “were about me.”

“Yes,” the poet admitted easily, his cornflower blue eyes so loving and trusting Geralt could only take a glance of them before shutting his eyes again, “they are all about you, always.”

He breathed in the assurance and a slight smile tugged at his lips.

He let it be and pulled Jaskier closer.


End file.
